The Body
by ceridwen-amyed
Summary: The thing Vincent likes most about Jerome’s body is its imperfections." SLASH


_The Body_

_by__ ceridwenamyed_

**Disclaimer:** Character and places don't belong to me and I'm not making any money out of this [/standard disclaimer]

**Author's Note:** Written for Lisa, who demanded that I write slashy smut. It's slashy, but not so much smutty. Hope it was enough for you, dear!

The thing Vincent likes most about Jerome's body is its imperfections. He can catalogue them in his head, and sometimes when he's at Gattaca and needs to look cool and clean and unruffled he runs through them. When Jerome gets too drunk to undress himself properly (which is often) Vincent lays him down on the bed and does it for him.

First, his white shirt. The back of the collar is slightly yellow with sweat but the rest of the shirt is white and crisp. There is a jagged scar cuts across Jerome's belly; the first of the imperfections. Perhaps it is where he had his appendix removed, or spleen (Vincent is not too hot on the specifics of human biology) or another souvenir from the accident. Jerome never tells him, and Vincent never asks.

Jerome is a little too thin for a Valid – it seems that while Vincent worked hard to match Jerome's body, Jerome himself slip down to Vincent's weight. Everything about their relationship is about compromise.

Next, Jerome's Italian made shoes and his belt, made of cracked brown leather and then his black pants. His poor legs, the most imperfect thing about him, white and awkward. They always seems to bend in painful looking positions, no matter how Vincent tries to make them straight.

The thin crisscrossing lines on his thighs, like maps and roads. His too bony wrists and knuckles which crack when he first moves his hands in the morning. All these Vincent knows intimately and they provide him some kind of comfort. He does not like to think too hard about why they should provoke such a reaction; he wants to believe that they are enough by themselves.

It's not that he thinks he isn't good enough for Jerome; he knows that he is good enough to _be _him. But these things are delicate and Jerome doesn't seem to like delicate things. They smash too easily.

One night, Vincent comes home to find Jerome curled up on the floor, his wheelchair lying overturned nearby. Sighing, Vincent picks up the broken shards of glass from the floor and wipes away the spilled liquor. He picks up Jerome, who feels very heavy unconscious and puts him to bed.

Whilst he's unbuttoning his shirt, Jerome's eyes suddenly open and he grips Vincent's wrist, pulling it down towards his heart.

"You watch me," he says, his lips curving into that familiar smirk, "I've seen you."

"You're drunk," says Vincent briskly, trying to pull out of Jerome's grip.

"A little," admits Jerome, "I'm not paralytic yet." And then he laughs at his own bad joke.

"Go to sleep," says Vincent. Jerome is still holding his wrist painfully, and Vincent rests his hand on the pillow just above Jerome's shoulder.

"I'm not tired," says Jerome. "And I'm not a child either. You can't tell me what to do. I'm a man." His voice rises.

"I know you're not," says Vincent, perhaps a little too quickly, for Jerome's eyes and his smirk widen. He has the expression of a cat who knows it's won on his face. His hand comes up to encircle Vincent's throat, his thumb and forefinger holding Vincent as if he would choke him. And then he slides his palm around the back of Vincent's throat and pulls him down for a kiss. Vincent lets him. His lips are chapped and rough and there is a kind of desperation to the way he kisses Vincent that belies the casualness of his hold on his neck.

Vincent shifts away for a moment, climbing onto the bed and straddling Jerome's waist. He feels almost surprised at the boldness of his moments but then again, it feels as if this moment were inevitable, their every move already filed. He cups Jerome's face with his hands and kisses him softly, Jerome's hand still gripping his left wrist. His other hand is tugging at Vincent's shirt, pulling it out of his pants and then running a cool hand along Vincent's hot skin.

"The ultimate narcissistic activity," Jerome murmurs.

"What?" whispers Vincent, catching Jerome's bottom lip in his teeth, surprised as Jerome groans loudly. The sound shatters through the air.

"Jerome and Jerome," says Jerome, suddenly looking different, vulnerable.

"Vincent and Eugene," says Vincent, kissing him again, tasting Jerome's whiskey on his tongue.

They say no more.

Vincent's hands run over Jerome's chest, tracing the lines of his wasting muscles and the scar on his belly, which he is delighted to discover as sensitive. He can feel Jerome quiver beneath him, his lips kissing Vincent's shoulder and neck. Vincent returns the kisses and then bites down hard on Jerome's shoulder, making him cry out loud. There will be another mark on Jerome's perfectly flawed body in the morning and Vincent almost feels triumphant that it will be _his_ mark.

Jerome tugged at Vincent's shirt, his belt, any material he can grab hold off. Vincent began to feel a little drunk, his vision blurring not myopically, but fuzzily, like the world was bleeding into itself and all that was left was the green-brown of Jerome's eyes and the noises he was making.

It's all a little awkward, because Vincent has never really done this before, not with another man, and if Jerome has, he seems unwilling to show his experience. Or unable to.

After what seems an age of struggling, there is nothing between them and Vincent can finally gaze at all of Jerome's body without politely averting his gaze. He feels afraid to meet Jerome's eyes, afraid that they will have frosted over and that clipped angry voice will tell Vincent to get out. But a quick glance shows that Jerome has one hand over his eyes, as if he cannot bear this.

"Hey," says Vincent. Jerome's cool hand is on Vincent's waist, sliding up his side to his shoulder. They're both shaking now. _It's just sex,_ Vincent tells himself. _Not even that, really. _But it's something unplanned and that fills him with a temporary panic; he's spent the last few years planning every move meticulously, knowing that the slightest accident, a single moment of ill-preparedness will undo everything.

Jerome kisses him and murmurs something in his ear. He's drunk, of course, but it thrills Vincent anyway and he thinks that he feels the same. At least at the moment. All he can think to do is show Jerome what he feels.

Things get even more blurry and frantic; Jerome whimpers, a strange sound, and his palms are soft, his skin pale. Vincent kisses a trail of wet warmth down his chest, across his abdomen, before Jerome tugs him back up for a kiss that shatters something deep inside of Vincent; he feels a tide stir inside of him, pushing and pulling.

Jerome's arms are stronger than they look and he pushes Vincent down into the bed, flipping himself over as well. Vincent is, not for the first time, startled at how well Jerome can move, all things considered. And then he has no room for feeling startled because Jerome's tongue is tracing the same path over Vincent's skin; chest, belly, and then lower. Vincent covers his mouth with his hand. He has a sudden absurd fear of someone hearing. Perhaps he is afraid that if he cries out it will be all too real.

It feels like falling, like he's had too much to drink and is falling into the gutter, taking an age to fall. Staring up at streetlights and stars, half-blinded and not noticing when he'd hit the ground. Teetering for a moment on the edge of something, a peculiar taste on the tip of his tongue, knowing there's something he needs to say, he has to say.

Three words, and then he cannot stem the tide, nor the cry that leaps from his throat. He's left gasping and shaking, feeling that odd emptiness of _after_, the warmth of Jerome's mouth pulling away from him.

It takes a moment for Jerome to crawl back up to look at Vincent's face. They stare at each other for a long time, barely touching. Finally, Jerome sighs.

"You'd better go to bed," he says shortly, turning onto his back. His voice sounds odd to Vincent; perhaps it's just because it's measured dull tone is so different to the moans and whimpers. "You have Gattaca in the morning. An early morning meeting, right?"

Vincent feels a brief flash of anger and a strange fluttering in his stomach that Jerome _remembered_ his meeting. Jerome nudges him.

"Go on. Can't have you looking less than perfect."

Automatically Vincent rises from the bed, trying not to look at the rumpled sheets or Jerome. He rummages for his clothes which have found temporary homes across the room. His belt is slung over a bedpost, his shirt on the lampshade, his trousers half under the bed.

So this is how Jerome wants to play it. Denial – unless it's because it didn't mean anything, it was just a drunken fumble. The type you regret in the morning.

Vincent clutches his clothes to his chest, unsure of how he feels now and wishing the back of his throat didn't burn so.

"I-"

He stares at Jerome's half-closed eyes, his naked body sprawled across the sheets. He needs tucking in or he'll be cold in the night when the heating goes off but Vincent's stomach twists and he can't quite bring himself to cross the room and touch him again. He knows he should force Jerome to talk, shake him, demand to know what the hell is going on in that strange mind of his, but he can't. Jerome is too proud and he'd never tell.

Vincent turns, still silent, determined not to let Jerome see what he's done to him (although, being Jerome, he probably already knows). Jerome calls his name.

"Look," he continues when Vincent looks back at him, "it's not that it's.. It's not a mistake. It's just…" He trails off hopelessly. He's even less sure of all this then Vincent is; it's so easy to forget that under the blistering temper, the black sense of humour and an oceans depth of pride, that Jerome is, after all, human. An attempt at a perfect human which left him more broken and fucked up than nature could have ever made him.

Vincent just nods. "I know," he says. He drops his clothes, crosses the room, slipping a little in the socks he didn't have time to take off. He helps Vincent between the covers and they both breathe a little more deeply, trying to catch their scent on the sheets. Vincent finds himself smoothing the material across Jerome's body, tucking the corners in. He doesn't know why he does this, but Jerome does not complain. He even catches Vincent's wrist and kisses his palm.

Vincent smiles wryly. "How romantic," he says, thinking that they're anything but.

"Naturally," Jerome mumbles, already half-asleep. "Horribly romantic."

Vincent fingers brush Jerome's forehead before he reaches over to switch off the lamp. He pauses at the door to pick up his clothes, looking back briefly at the rise and fall of Jerome's chest before shutting the door quietly behind him.

He goes out onto the roof, naked before the heavens and starts to count the stars. _Naturally romantic_, he thinks, and smiles


End file.
